I Broke It off With Someone I Love

I met my dream man. Despite covid-19 and the perils of dating during a pandemic, I found an extraordinary love with a man I believed was just right for me.

Being with him was so easy. Which is why our breakup is so hard.

A Covid Courtship

We met online and had several social distancing phone dates before we met. Our calls could last for an hour or more, the time going by without either of us knowing it. No topic was off limits. Politics, parenting, philosophy, spirituality… we laughed a lot and the attraction grew between us like middle-aged teenagers (we’re both in our early 50s).

Our first date was outdoors over lunch. His smile matched the kindness I saw in his eyes. I liked how he made me feel — seen and heard.

I admired his activist spirit. His emoji was of a grey haired bespectacled smiling guy in a Black Lives Matter t-shirt. He was a bonified feminist, comfortable in his manly skin. He quoted Jorge Luis Borges to me, the subject of his graduate thesis work. Fluent in Spanish, he was a special education teacher, dedicating 20 years of his life to helping children with needs.

When he wasn’t teaching, he honed his natural musical talents. I loved listening to him play the harmonica, guitar or sing. The tenor of his velvety voice was as much an aphrodisiac to me, as were his kisses. Lovemaking was a glorious, satisfying affair.

While he smoked cannabis, I didn’t mind on principal. After all, we live in a recreational state and I work in a related industry. He was my happy hippie.

We basked in our mutual adoration.

Being together was so so easy.

Living an hour apart meant that our time together required planning. We began to talk of moving in together in a year or so. There wasn’t a rush to it, just a certainty that we were committed.

We were thoughtful about introducing our our kids, respecting their boundaries and timeline. His were still in elementary school compared to mine, ages 13 and 18. Within a few months, it seemed natural to make Thanksgiving plans, so we decided to take a road trip and stay in a time-share within a half-day’s journey.

Everyone was game. Everyone was excited. Logistics and expectations were discussed.

Masks, toys and hopes were packed into one car.

We left on Monday before Thanksgiving. By Friday, the relationship was kaput.

Love Isn’t Enough for Love to Thrive

How did this happen? How do I deal with breaking up with the man I thought was my forever guy?

As a relationship coach and student of the Law of Attraction, it was paramount to me that I choose love wisely this time. My prior marriage was a frightful disaster, so I was careful about how I would approach dating again.

Cultivating a spirituality and mindset of abundance helped me heal my fears and soothe those scars. I had trust issues, and probably a fair share of PTSD, which I worked on with therapy, meditation, yoga and journaling.

I listened to Abraham Hicks podcasts every morning during my walks around a local lake. I blended my training as a coach with my studies of the Law of Attraction to create a focus wheel that resonated with the kind of love and man I desired and admired. And I rampaged about how I felt: loved, generous, happy, appreciated, cherished, accepted and secure. The laughter, kindness, sensuality, joy, expressiveness and generosity were all there!

According to Dr. Diana Kirschner, one of my mentors and best-selling author of the book, Love in 90 Days, there are eight habits of living love: cultivating intimacy, acting out of dedication and service, acting from enlightened selfishness, considering the cost of loss, showing appreciation and gratitude, practicing care-full communication, following fight club rules and collaborating as team mates.

Time with my guy had shown me we had the bulk of that list down. The one thing we hadn’t tested was how we’d resolved conflict between us. We just hadn’t experienced any yet (everything about our love was so easy, after all).

Which is why what happened is just so so hard.

Road Trip Terror

Road tripping with kids is by nature rife with potential pitfalls. Space is cramped, bodies fidget, tummies grumble, patience is tested. What I was unprepared for was his laxity with his youngest. It pains me to say this about any child…the word that came to mind to describe the behavior was feral. Just an enormous amount of hitting, whining, kicking and general disregard for others, especially the older sibling who seemed to be a child resigned.

Over the course of two days, my internal tension grew as I watch my beloved sidestep the issue. “That’s my turkey,” he’d say. My kid’s just really physical, he’d say. A few times there were futile negotiations: If I get you that toy/candy, will you stop hitting?

Feeling impotent, I instinctively pull away. My boyfriend was oozing unlimited patience, and I was losing the little bit I had. I couldn’t step in, so I stepped out.

In hindsight, I pulled away because I couldn’t handle the anger nor my fear that what we were experiencing on this trip would be what we’d experience living together.

The mess, marijuana and mayhem had hijacked my capacity to connect to him or my higher self.

Then there was the escalating mess, an unnerving cacophony of clothes, toys and dishes. When my daughter began making their beds, cleaning up after them and imploring me to “say something,” I knew it wasn’t just my inner neat freak getting triggered.

His cannabis use began to worry me too. I wasn’t keeping track of every time he puffed, but when his referred to it as “daddy’s medicine,” and mine complained of the smell, I felt pressured to intervene. This wasn’t a romantic weekend with wine and little pleasure; this was a family trip. Was the pot a coping mechanism, I began to wonder. If so, for what?

Two days in, I asked him to chat with me privately. We stepped into the bedroom.

“This is kinda hard,” I began. “I think we have some differences in how we travel, and I would like to come up with ways…” He interrupted me before I could finish. The next 45 minutes are a blur. I spent most of my time mute while he erupted with a slew of unrelated grievances and experiences that were hurting him from times that predated me. At one point he told me to take it or leave it. We were triggered. Little got resolved. Fair fighting was out of the question.

I felt like I’d been handed a passive-aggressive sandwich served with a side of grudge.

I was also confused! Where was my easy going guy!? What had just happened? What had I contributed to this misunderstanding?
In hindsight, I pulled away because I couldn’t handle the anger nor my fear that what we were experiencing on this trip would be what we’d experience living together.

The mess, marijuana and mayhem had hijacked my capacity to connect to him or my higher self.

The next few days were more of the same, and we maintained an uneasy truce.

Fool Me Once, Shame on You. Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me.

It was sometime after 5 am on Friday when he got up to help his daughter get a cup of water. I inquired if everything was okay.
“Not it’s not,” he said. That’s when the second salvo ensued.

I was told he had a terrible night, that my daughter’s behaviors were “atrocious,” she wasn’t to be trusted around his children, and he wouldn’t tell me what exactly happened until I’d spoken to her first and so on and so on.

What I gathered was that something triggered a full-blown temper tantrum in his youngest. Dad had to restrain his child who was hitting, kicking and screaming. While it was his offspring having a fit, he blamed mine for instigating it.

The one-way conversation ended when he got out of bed telling me he couldn’t be in the same room with me anymore.

I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane

My heart was pounding and hands were shaking. It was hard to breathe and the room felt claustrophobic. In hindsight, I was in flight or fight mode.

I got up quietly, showered and packed my suitcase. I guided my child to do the same, and soothed her nerves. She was distraught from the night before and filled me in on the details. While I deplored the idea of boarding a plane during this pandemic, the need for peace overrode any fear of flying.

I just didn’t know how to convey to him the impact of his anger on my sense of wellbeing. Having suffered verbal abuse in my marriage, I’m hypersensitive to tone and the difference between constructive and destructive expressions of anger. Anything that approximates unmitigated fury is a no-go-zone. I also recognize that I was rendered speechless from anxiety, and couldn’t communicate that to him.

My last gesture of love was to cover him as he lay on the couch. Unsure if he was asleep or ignoring my movements, my daughter and I quietly tiptoed out the door.

By 8:15 am, we were at the airport. By noon, I was on solid ground in my hometown, feeling really shaky inside.

Second Thoughts

My friends called me a badass for responding so resolutely. Underneath the I-can-do-it exterior is an unfamiliar ache. I’ve never left someone I loved, loving them from the heights of my feelings.

All the stages of grief and separation are kicking in. I wake up in the middle of the night, crying because I am dreaming of him. I miss the little things like how he’d hold my face when we kissed or the many times we laughed together till the happy tears flowed.

My daughter had a multitude of questions about what he must have done after we left. She told me he refused her apology and she keeps blaming herself for what happened. I keep telling her that, “I didn’t leave because of your behaviors.”

I left because of his, I left because of mine.

I left because I have a responsibility to set an example of self-care, love and respect, for her most of all.

Paying the Cost of Loss

Leaving was a hard call to make. I fell in love with him, and there is much to adore about who he is and how we were together. I miss him every hour of every day since that trip.

I’m taking a good look at my role in this dissolution, and know I can work on being more patient and flexible. With clarity comes growth. There’s room to compromise and collaborate, and if there’s one thing I can say with certainty, anger isn’t the issue…it’s how it’s expressed that makes the difference. Anger as an emotion is a powerful signal that something needs to change. In our case, anger arrived with such force, it ripped us apart.

How can I maintain a calm center in the midst of external chaos? I see now that I place too much emphasis on my external surroundings to achieve that. One of my friends has a plaque in her kitchen that says, “Happy Homes Have Sticky Floors.” I think about my need for a clean home and the friction it sometimes costs with my own children.

Whose standards am I living by? This trip has motivated me to look at some of my lifestyle and core values to assess how I can adjust how I show up — for myself, children, friends, family and yes, my future mate.

I miss my happy hippie. Some moments, I’m too hurt to want to talk. Other times, I would love to hear his voice again. I enjoyed every loving moment together and wish him only good things and happiness. I will have an amazing relationship with a man just right for me. I wished it was with him, still do…but if not my happy hippie, than with someone else.

Final Thoughts

From the airport I texted.

“Sending the messages that xxx sent me last night. I spoke with her this morning, and she was very contrite. We are sorry this occurred. Given the situation, I decided it was best to give everyone some space and have arranged to get home another way. I’m sorry for anything I said or did that caused any hurt feelings. Get home safe and hopefully you can have some good fun today. Thank you for arranging the trip and being a conscientious tour guide. This isn’t the children’s fault and I said so to xxx.”

Thus far, it’s been crickets.